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"How do you presume such?" For a moment she thought that her maid had a titbit of information to that effect.
"He would rather marry you than have your reputation in shreds," Mary answered with a broad smile. Amelia lost hope at that point. That was hardly a sign of affection since he stood to gain a lot.
Amelia started to explain, "Mary..."
"No. T’was a move to ruin you to this very grounds and he has saved you from the gossip." She was quite unmoved from her idealism. Mary was championing Lord Windon and she was not to be dissuaded. If she was already supporting him, then the entire household was most likely pledging eternal fealty and servitude. Stop this Amelia, she chided in her mind. This is not a play on Drury Lane. This is your own life.
"I would think my household would curb their tongue," Amelia answered with a returning salvo. As responses went, it was weak, but it had the desired effect of sobering her maid. Barely.
"Fool's dream," Mary scolded lightly, her manner stiff in her indignation.
"I must not read much into his chivalrous act in asking for my hand on the marriage mart. My dowry is quite handsome," Amelia returned with enough acid in her tone to curb anyone.
But Mary had been her maid since her childhood and was not just anyone. "Lord Windon is even richer than you are..." she informed her with glee.
"Of that I have no doubt," Amelia subsided.
Mary sighed. "It is as my mother said. You are now plagued with the discontent that ails all spinster of a certain age."
It stung, that she was already termed a spinster and that her maid discussed her with her mother on her day off. Even if it was only in goodly concern. "You forget I am to be married," she countered smugly.
"Of barely a moment. Here, have your ginger tea. Cook brewed it especially for your tender stomach." Mary was not impressed. Amelia conceded to drain the tea cup.
"There will be a feast tonight." Amelia dropped the fragile cup with a rattle. Mary cautioned her in concern, but her mind was too far away to register the words.
"I am sure you will make my excuses to my father." It was a plea even if she worded it like an order.
Mary huffed angrily. She couldn’t refuse to do it but her disgust at the evasion was so obvious that she blurted, "You, milady, are more stubborn than a mule!"
"You will remember your place!" Even this did not sound sure enough.
"If you will remember yours! Milady, it is an announcement of your wedding. Don't take that pleasure from your father," Mary pleaded.
"Having carted his burden off to another, he should feast the entire peerage of England." Amelia was not in the mood to be pleaded with. Her father wanted nothing more than to give her away and Robert, damn him, was carting her away from her home. She knew she was behaving like a petulant child denied a toy.
"It is only the household," Mary inserted.
"I shall not come!" And that was final! All of England could not drag her to the dinner table. Let them take their pleasures by themselves. The thought sparked the events of the previous night in her mind.
"You, milady, are being most contrary," Mary replied. “It will bring your father much joy. He is sickly but would bring himself to attend the festivities. He will be displeased at..."
"Papa is ill?" Amelia cut in, concern on her face.
"Why this morning, he could barely shuffle to breakfast without the aid of a footman. And that is a mild tale of it!" Mary answered softly.
“Why did he not stay in bed!" she demanded in alarm.
"He had guests and he did his duty by them." Mary meant well, truly she did. Her blind faith in her employer’s health rankled his daughter.
And her choice of words were so reminiscent of what Robert—Lord Windon now, no more Robert. Her words reminded her of the discussion with Lord Windon the first night of their acquaintance. "Lord Windon can surely keep himself amused without the aid of an invalid,” she exclaimed with a vehemence that stunned even her maid.
Mary, when faced with her mistress's manner, fell back on stiff propriety. "Lord Windon is a respected guest of your father."
"Leave me," Amelia ordered and burrowed into her sheets. Her show of anger was suddenly extinguished. Mary sighed and inhaled with a rush, as if she was going to say something, but held herself back. Amelia turned her back on her maid. Her gaze was fixed on the vanity mirror and the jars of colors and scents that littered the table. She watched as Mary finally sighed with disgust, threw her rag into the bowl and carried it with the cup of tea out if the room. The silence was deafening for a moment before Amelia surrendered to tears and after a time she slept off. Even the movement of her maid in her boudoir did not rouse her.
In the late evening, Mary brought a tray for her lady. The conversation flowed between them. Mary was happy, with her tongue loosened considerably by the ale from the earl’s cellar. A generous amount had been passed to the servant’s table in celebration. There was news of the feasts both in the kitchen and in the formal dining table. The difference being that the crowd in the kitchen were less stiff and exuberant with their joys.
“The dining room,” Mary frowned as she delivered this titbit, “was bright with candles and the three gentlemen who sat there were silent though they indulged in Cook's repast. Even Lord Rochester moved himself to dine well tonight, but for all that the air was somber. Lord Rochester smiled. Lord Windon was quiet, though curiously without an expression. Mister Smythe, Lord Rochester’s solicitor, wore a curious expression,” Mary finished triumphantly, then added, “It would have been a cheery meal if her ladyship had moved herself to attend.”
